Lady Yvala’s eyes grew wide with alarm.
“We’ll have sweepriders out at first light,” K’lior promised. “As soon as we see anything, we’ll let you know.”
“I’d hate to lose the stands of timber to the north,” Lord Egremer said. “They’re old enough to be harvested, but I was hoping to hold off until mid-Pass, when we’ll really be needing the wood.”
K’lior nodded. “We’ll do our best,” he promised.
“And we’re grateful for all that you’ve done,” Egremer replied.
Wearily, K’lior mounted Rineth and gave him the image for Fort’s Bowl.
The morning dawned gray, cold, and cloudy. Even Cisca was subdued.
“The reports are in from T’mar on sweep,” she said as she nudged K’lior awake, handing him a mug of steaming klah. “Five burrows.”
K’lior groaned. Cisca made a face and he gave her a go-on gesture.
“Two are well-established. They’ll have to fire the timber stands.”
K’lior sat up, taking a long sip of his klah. He gave Cisca a measuring look, then said, “Casualties?”
Cisca frowned. “Between the illness and Thread, twenty-three have gone between. F’dan and P’red will be laid up with injuries for at least the next six months. Troth, Piyeth, Kadorth, Varth, and Bidanth are all seriously injured and will also take at least six months to heal. There are eleven other riders or dragons with injuries that will keep them from flying for the next three months.”
“So, we’ve what-seventy dragons and riders fit to fly?”
“Seventy-five,” Cisca corrected, emphasizing the difference. “And we’ve got over three sevendays before our next Fall. I’m sure that we’ll have more dragons fit to fly by then.”
“Three sevendays is not enough time,” K’lior grumbled, rising from their bed and searching out some clothes.
“No you don’t,” Cisca said sharply, getting up and pushing him toward the baths. “You smell. You’re getting bathed before you do anything else.”
K’lior opened his mouth to protest but Cisca silenced him with a kiss.
“If you’re nice,” she taunted, “I may join you.”
K’lior tried very hard to be nice.
Lord Holder Egremer scowled at the line of smoke in the distance. Forty Turns’ worth of growth, gone. Three whole valleys had been put to flames before the dragonriders and ground crews could declare Southern Boll Hold free from Thread.
The rains would come soon and the burnt land would lose all its topsoil. He could expect floods to ravage the remnants of those valleys. In the end, there might be a desert where once there had been lush forests.
It would be worse for his holders. They had expected years of work and income culling the older trees, planting new, and working the wood into fine pieces of furniture. Now Southern Boll would be dependent upon its pottery, spices, and the scant foodstuffs it could raise for trade with the other Holds.
The Hold would take Turns to recover.
“I’m sorry, Egremer,” a disconsolate K’lior repeated. “If there’s anything the Weyr can do to help…”
Egremer sighed and turned back to the youthful Weyrleader. K’lior was no more than ten Turns younger than he, and while Egremer wanted desperately to blame someone, he knew that it would be unfair to blame the dragonrider.
Egremer forced a smile. “I appreciate that, K’lior,” he replied. “And there might be more that you can do than you know. If I could have the loan of a weyrling or two, to help scout out the damage and maybe haul some supplies…”
“Weyrlings we have aplenty,” K’lior said. He shook his head. “It’s full-grown dragons that are scarce.”
“I’d heard that your losses are high from the illness,” Egremer replied. “Is there anything we can do for you, my lord?”
For a moment, K’lior made no reply, staring off into space, thinking.
“Time,” he said at last, angrily. “We need time for the weyrlings to grow up, time for the wounded to heal.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid you cannot give that to us, my lord.”
Egremer’s face drained. “How long do we have, then, my lord?”
K’lior’s face grew ashen. “Fort is lucky. We don’t have another Threadfall in the next three sevendays. We’ll probably be able to fight that.” He shook his head. “But I can’t say about the Fall after.”
The despair that gripped the Weyrleader was palpable. Egremer looked for some words of encouragement to give him but could find none. It was K’lior who spoke next, pulling himself erect and willing a smile back on to his face.
“We’ll find a way, Lord Egremer,” he declared with forced cheer. “We’re dragonriders-we always find a way.” He nodded firmly to himself and then said to Egremer, “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Certainly!” Egremer replied. “I’ll see you out. And don’t worry about those weyrlings, if it’s too much bother. Having them would only save us time.”
K’lior stopped so suddenly that Egremer had to swerve to avoid bumping into him.
“Time!” K’lior shouted exultantly. He turned to Egremer and grabbed him on both shoulders. “That’s it! Time! We need time.”
Egremer smiled feebly, wondering if the dragons’ sickness could affect riders, as well. K’lior just as suddenly let go of the Lord Holder and raced out of the Hold.
“Thank you, Lord Egremer, you’ve been most helpful,” he called as he climbed up to his perch on Rineth.
“Any time, Weyrleader,” Egremer called back, not at all certain what he had done, but willing to use the Weyrleader’s good cheer to elevate that of his holders, rather than depress them more by looking at the Weyrleader as if he were mad.
“Cisca, it’s time!” K’lior yelled up from the Bowl to their quarters as soon as he returned between from Southern Boll. “That’s what we need-time!”
Cisca stepped up to the ledge in Melirth’s quarters and peered down to K’lior. “Of course we need time,” she agreed, mostly to humor him.
“No, no, no,” K’lior shouted back. “The weyrlings and the injured riders, they all need time to grow and recover.”
“Make sense, K’lior,” Cisca returned irritably.
K’lior took a deep breath and gave her a huge smile. “We’ll time it. Send them back in time somewhere so-”
“So they can recover!” Cisca finished with a joyful cry and a leap. “K’lior, that’s brilliant!”
When K’tan approached M’tal and Salina at dinner that evening, M’tal gave Salina a worried look.
“Salina, may I talk with you?” K’tan asked, his eyes pleading, his face pale. “It’s about Drith.”
Salina responded with a weary smile and a small shake of her head. Really, she was getting used to this, although she hadn’t expected K’tan to be the next dragonrider to ask to speak to her alone.
M’tal leaned back in his chair, reflectively fingering a glass of wine on the table. Salina rose from her chair and gave him a peck on the cheek before following the Weyr healer out of the Living Cavern.
“How long has it been?” she asked K’tan as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Over two sevendays,” he replied grimly, his face lined with the pain of so many burdens piled on top of each other-the dying, Lorana, and now his own dragon’s sickness. “I keep telling myself that the next potion, the next herbal infusion will turn the tide but-”
Salina laid a hand gently on his arm. K’tan took a shuddering breath.
“I must go check on Lorana,” he said finally, ducking away from Salina’s gaze. He turned back, eyes puzzled, and told her, “I see her body shudder every time a dragon goes between, but she makes no sound.”